


Hold Tight

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BDSM, It's consensual and loving but not fluffy, M/M, Safewording / edging, uncomfortable scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22512304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Aziraphale tries to help Crowley through these times. Sometimes it works, sometimes it's not as clear cut.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 118





	Hold Tight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> This is not a fluffy BDSM scene. It is reasonably good etiquette, when you're ethereal and occult beings. As ever, be safe, communicate, and do what seems best.

Aziraphale wished he didn’t understand this need that Crowley had, he really did. It might make it easier to handle, or perhaps it wouldn’t happen at all. 

But he did understand it, at least, enough. And he held no answering echo, no drive to do this, other than to help. 

(If he was honest with himself, which he so very rarely, truly was… he held more than a little of the same inside of him. It was just that he wasn’t ready to admit it, and Crowley either was, or was unable to… not. So, by helping his demon, he could somewhat help himself. Could see the end result, and feel some of the relief and result in his own bones. Perhaps one day he’d be able to ask for the same, though the fear of asking and greater fear of Crowley’s response would keep that at bay for some, some time yet.)

Crowley needed this. Needed it, like an addict needed the chemical lift or drop their body had grown to require. The periods between would wax and wane, but eventually he’d be so strung out that either he’d force indirectly, or Aziraphale would (increasingly) realise and take matters into his own hands. 

The pain was not ‘necessary’, but helpful. It could escalate things to the right level rapidly, or could convince him it was one of ‘those times’. It was easier if they were distinct from other times, as it gave him the freedom to react more intensely. They’d had more than a few scuffles when things were too ill-defined and bordering on ‘normal’, and the angel knew to mark the start and end more obviously to stop that.

Right now, he had Crowley bound. Bound from his shoulders, arms pinned to his sides, legs pressed together and entirely immobilised. He’d been fighting, been resisting, and Aziraphale had straddled him and pulled his clawing hands behind his back and wrapped him in red, unyielding ropes. 

It had stopped the litany of profanities, and made him still to panting and shaking. His heart was still racing (as was the angel’s, who preferred by far the times when Crowley was less angry and afraid), and he was stiff as a board between Aziraphale’s strong thighs.

He knew it could go several ways. It could go the raging need to howl out long-repressed, self-righteous rancor. It could go to needing the pain he thought (knew, believed, whatever) he deserved. It could go into him needing instructions to follow, to requiring commands and structure… the mood would vary, the result and requirement would vary… but the end result would almost always be a quiet, humbled, exhausted demon who very much needed to be held, and hugged, and reassured as he came down from the precipice of feeling.

Right now, Aziraphale couldn’t work out what Crowley needed precisely, because the restraints were supposed to have worked. He was either supposed to thrash himself to surrender, or get there at once. But instead of the violence or yielding, he got this third option.

Stiff. Uneasy. Rigid. 

Unhappy.

Crowley wasn’t happy, and Aziraphale didn’t know what to do, for once. He wondered if he should tug his hair? If he should use his body to smother him down? If he should force (but not really force) intimacy? Should he insult him? Command him? Soothe?

“Crowley…”

There was no answer, and Aziraphale could feel his own panic start to rise. He was supposed to be in control, right now. Supposed to be what Crowley needed, supposed to help him. But how could he do that if he went to a place the angel had never known before? The serpent - wrapped up just as if he was one, still - was going cold in a way Aziraphale didn’t like. 

It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t guilt. Or hate. Or a need to serve.

It was--

_Fear_.

Crowley was afraid. Afraid of him, or afraid of the situation he was in. The two were one and the same, and Aziraphale _hated_ that realisation, because it meant he was doing this all wrong. He wasn’t helping, he was harming, and a bubble of guilt came up and blocked his throat, and all he could think to do was reach out a shaking hand and stroke his lover’s vibrant hair.

“ _Don’t_.”

It wasn’t an order, but it wasn’t a request, either. Crowley was literally cold, now, and his hips and toes squirmed as his eyes shifted as far from Human as it was possible to be.

“My dear, you don’t need to worry,” Aziraphale felt his voice say, without the feeling behind it. “You’re doing so well, so good for me, so--”

A flash of a word, a thought, an emotion. Crowley did have a way out of this, beyond just wishing himself free. Aziraphale had insisted on it, even though Crowley had tried to say there was no such need. He had simply to say one word, and it would be over. 

He’d never said it. Never once. Aziraphale had stopped when he thought the punishment had become too much, before. Or he’d relented when he thought Crowley should need it, even if the demon didn’t. It was a matter of stubborn pride, he knew, and it was also dangerous and why he’d hesitated, and why--  
Crowley was trembling under his fingers, trying to escape the caresses, the nice words. Whatever was happening, it was beyond Aziraphale’s ability to handle. At least today. He didn’t have the strength to push through, or to guide him back, and the longer they tried and got nowhere…

“I’m going to untie you.”

There was no answer, but he felt the flare of confusion and unhappiness. Crowley didn’t want it, but he didn’t want to remain, either. It was too confusing, too hard, and he hoped he was picking up the correct cues, even if the demon wasn’t saying them aloud.

“You’ve been very good for--”

“ _Don’t_.” Begging, now, the word, the praise being bucked off like an untamed mount refusing a saddle. 

“You _have_ ,” he pushed, sure that this, at least, was correct. Even if the rest of the scenario was wrong, the demon wasn’t getting out of that element so fast. “I’m going to loosen the rope, and then I’m going to sit back, and if you want to come close you can.”

Which. That bit was dangerous. Crowley might try to tell him to bugger off, or might attempt to do the same himself. But he wasn’t going to force any form of intimacy, and nor was he going to refuse it. He could offer what reassurance he could, and show he wasn’t afraid, or ashamed, or going to abandon him.

It was the best of a list of very bad options, at least for now.

The ropes fell, and Crowley slithered to the edge of the bed, facing away from him and wrapping his arms around himself. 

It hurt. It hurt so badly, to see him like this. 

But Aziraphale had done this, through his own weakness. His own misunderstanding. His own… lack of strength. It had been wanted, but then not. It was both injuries he’d left, and ones he’d tried to heal. Neither of their ‘faults’, but their responsibility. Mostly his, because Crowley trusted him to take care of him when this happened.

And he simply did the best he could.

“I would like to hold you,” he said, as quietly as his voice would go, which was very.

Crowley didn’t respond, but he didn’t object, either.

“I - I did not mean to hurt you.”

A snort in response, and the demon’s shoulders shrugged.

It was an invitation. It was all he needed.

Aziraphale moved slowly, but surely. He lay against his demon’s back, and wrapped an arm firmly around his waist. Pulled him in, and pushed his nose against his neck. 

It took what felt like forever before the first frost thawed, and the demon’s hand wormed its way under his own. Before the face turned into a pillow, to hide the tears he shed.

Aziraphale held him all the tighter, and kissed his neck. His ear. His jaw.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I do. My demon. I love you.”

He would not call him ‘good’, not when he couldn’t stand the word.

“I don’t know why,” was the very quiet reply.

“Because you’re you.” 

Not good. Or, not aloud. Not today. Broken, sad, hurt, and difficult. But him. Crowley.

Eventually, the demon turned. Tucked his limbs in, and pushed his head below the angel’s chin. 

Maybe it was what he’d needed. Maybe it could have been better. Later, much later, they’d talk. 

But for now, all he needed to do was hold tight.


End file.
